My name is Siddharth Kumar and I am twenty-nine years old, married for five years to Neha, living in a noisy yet loving joint family house in the busy Kankarbagh locality of Patna. Our home is one of those typical Bihar-style three-storey buildings with iron-grilled balconies, narrow staircases painted bright green, a small courtyard where maa grows tulsi and seasonal flowers, and constant sounds of auto-rickshaws honking outside, children playing gully cricket in the gali, and pressure cookers whistling from every kitchen in the neighborhood. My father retired from railways last year, now spends his days reading newspapers and arguing politics with neighbors. Maa runs the house like a general—strict about timings, food, and family respect. I have an elder sister married in Muzaffarpur and a younger brother studying engineering in Bhagalpur hostel. My wife Neha is the eldest bahu—calm, responsible, always supporting maa in everything. And then there is my saali—Riya—Neha's younger sister, twenty-one years old, just finished her graduation from Patna Women's College, and suddenly transformed from the skinny schoolgirl I used to tease into a stunning young woman who turns heads wherever she goes.
Riya has always been part of our family life since Neha and I got married. She used to come every summer vacation and festival, calling me Jija ji with that sweet, slightly naughty tone, asking me to take her for ice-cream or drop her to tuition on my bike. I treated her like my own little sister—buying her chocolates, scolding her for low marks, helping with college applications. But this last year something shifted. After her graduation she stopped wearing those loose salwar suits and started wearing fitted kurtis, low-waist jeans, and during family functions—specially this time when our youngest cousin's wedding was fixed—she began wearing lehengas and sarees that showed off her newly developed figure. Fair skin like fresh malai, long straight black hair that reaches her lower back, big innocent eyes that can turn seductive in a second, full pink lips always glossy, and a body that makes every outfit look criminal—heavy C-cup breasts that strain against every choli, tiny waist, flared hips, and a perfectly round gaand that jiggles slightly when she walks fast or dances during sangeet practice.
The trouble started properly in November 2025 when the wedding dates were finalized—one full month of functions: roka, tilak, haldi, mehendi, sangeet, baraat, reception. The entire extended family descended on our house. Mattresses were laid out in every room, kitchen ran twenty-four hours, dhol practice happened on the terrace every evening, and laughter never stopped. Riya came from her college hostel to stay permanently for the month, sharing the guest room right next to ours on the first floor. Bhaiya (Neha's brother) was busy with his job in Bangalore and could only come for the last week, so Riya was practically under my care—helping me with shopping lists, decoration planning, and sometimes late-night talks when everyone else slept.
The first real spark happened during the mehendi function preparation. It was late evening, power cut as usual in Patna winters, generator running downstairs for lights in the courtyard but our floor was dark except for mobile torches. Everyone was downstairs applying mehendi to the bride-to-be. Riya called me to her room saying Jija ji zara help karo, yeh heavy lehenga box uthane mein. I went inside, the room lit by one emergency light. She was wearing a simple green cotton kurti and leggings, hair open, fresh from bath, jasmine scent filling the room. When she bent to show me the box her kurti rode up exposing the smooth skin of her lower back and the top of her black panty waistband. I froze. She noticed, turned slowly, smiled that naughty smile she has, and whispered Jija ji aap bhi badal gaye ho… pehle toh aise nahi dekhte the. I stammered sorry Riya galti se… but she stepped closer, so close I could feel her breath, and said galti nahi Jija ji… dil se dekha hai na? The air became thick, my lund twitched in my pajama. I should have left. Instead I stayed. She turned again, bent deeper, deliberately making her gaand push against my crotch for a second. I felt the soft roundness, the heat. She straightened, looked back over her shoulder and whispered aapka… hard ho gaya hai Jija ji. I panicked, turned to leave but she caught my wrist, pulled me inside, closed the door quietly. In the dim light she whispered bas thodi der… koi nahi aayega. Everyone mehendi mein busy hai.
That night we didn't do everything but we crossed the line. She kissed me first—soft, hesitant, then hungry. I kissed back tasting her strawberry lip balm, feeling her small tongue explore my mouth. My hands went to her waist, pulled her closer, squeezed her gaand over the leggings. She moaned softly uffff Jija ji kitna pyar se pakad rahe ho. I lifted her kurti, touched her bare waist, felt the softness of her skin. She guided my hand to her breast—full, firm, nipple hard through the bra. I squeezed gently, she arched aaaahhhh Jija ji zor se dabao. We kissed for long minutes in that dark room, hands exploring, breathing heavy. When we heard footsteps downstairs she pushed me away, fixed her clothes, whispered kal raat ko terrace pe wait karna Jija ji… sab so jayenge tab. I left with a painful hard-on and a heart full of guilt. She was my saali, my wife's sister, family. Yeh galat hai, bohot galat hai. But the thrill was already inside me like poison.
From that night the secret affair began—slow, careful, dangerously addictive. During the day she was the same sweet saali—helping with wedding shopping, teasing me about my old clothes, calling me Jija ji in front of everyone with innocent smiles. But at night when the house slept after long wedding preparations, the real Riya came out. She started wearing shorter nighties when she came to give me water or ask for phone charger, bending low so I could see her cleavage, her nipples poking through the fabric. One night she came to my room at 2 a.m. wearing only a short black satin nightie, no bra, no panty. She closed the door, locked it, came straight to my bed and whispered Jija ji neend nahi aa rahi… aapki yaad aa rahi thi. Before I could speak she climbed on top of me, kissed me deeply, her breasts pressing against my chest through the thin fabric. I pulled the nightie straps down, sucked her nipples hard while she moaned softly uffff Jija ji choos lo zor se choos apni saali ke chuche. My hand went between her legs—choot already soaking wet, shaved smooth, swollen. I fingered her slowly, then faster, she came shaking aaaahhhhh Jija ji ungli se hi jhad gayi.
She pushed me back, pulled my pajamas down, took my lund in her hand stroked slowly whispered kitna bada hai Jija ji… Neha di kitni lucky hain. Then she took me in her mouth—slow at first, tongue on topi, then deep, gagging slightly but not stopping. I came in her mouth, she swallowed every drop, licked her lips saying tera maal kitna tasty hai Jija ji. We didn't stop there. Next night on the terrace under winter stars she pulled me behind the water tank, lifted her nightie, guided my lund inside her standing against the wall. First full chudai—slow, deep, her legs wrapped around my waist, my hand covering her mouth to muffle moans aaaahhhh Jija ji andar tak daal do poora daal do. I fucked her hard, fast, the wall shaking slightly. She came twice clenching around me before I exploded inside her garam garam maal bhar do Jija ji saali ki choot bhar do.
After that there was no stopping. Every night became our private world. Kitchen at 1 a.m.—her bent over counter, saree hiked up, me pounding from behind while she bit her dupatta to stay quiet. Rooftop under moonlight—her riding me on charpoy, nightie pulled up, breasts bouncing in my face while I sucked them. Her bedroom when bhaiya was away on official tour—full night, multiple rounds, every position. Missionary with deep eye contact, doggy with hair pulling, cowgirl where she controlled the pace grinding her hips, reverse cowgirl showing me how her gaand swallowed my lund. She learned to squeeze her choot muscles around me, making me cum faster. I learned to rub her clit while fucking her, making her squirt on the bedsheet.
The guilt was always there. Every morning when she came to give me tea, called me Jija ji sweetly in front of Neha and family, I felt like the worst human alive. Neha trusted me completely, loved me, never suspected. Maa praised Riya for being such a good girl, helping with wedding work. Papa treated me like his responsible son-in-law. But at night Riya became mine—completely, shamelessly, hungrily. She whispered dirty things Jija ji meri choot sirf aapke liye geeli hoti hai, Neha di ko sirf naam ke liye chodne dena, main aapki randi saali hoon ab. Those words made me cum harder, deeper, filling her every time.
The risk grew with every passing day. Once during sangeet practice when everyone was dancing downstairs, she pulled me to the storeroom on the second floor, locked the door, lifted her lehenga, no panty underneath, guided me inside her standing. I fucked her hard against the wall, hand over her mouth, music below covering our moans. I came inside her in under three minutes, cum dripping down her thighs while she fixed her lehenga and went back to dance with a satisfied smile. Another time during baraat preparation when the house was full of guests, she came to my room at 3 a.m., climbed on my bed, rode me silently while the whole house slept around us. The fear of someone walking in only made her choot tighter, my thrusts harder.
Months passed, the wedding got over, guests left, house became quiet again. But our hunger didn't die—it grew. Bhaiya still has night shifts sometimes. Those nights become our full nights—slow love-making with deep kisses, rough fucking with slapping and hair pulling, emotional talks after where she cries saying Jija ji mujhe pyar ho gaya hai aapse, real wala pyar, ruk nahi paati. I hold her, kiss her tears, tell her I feel the same, that the guilt kills me every day but I can't live without her. We talk about future—dangerous dreams of running away, careful plans of continuing this forever. She started taking pills secretly because pregnancy risk is too high, but sometimes she forgets on purpose, whispers agar ho gaya toh Jija ji… humara bachcha hoga, sabko lagega kisi aur ka par hum jaanenge sach.
Now January 12 2026, bhaiya is on a week-long training in Ranchi. House is almost empty except maa-papa who sleep early. Riya is staying here pretending to help with post-wedding cleaning. Tonight she is waiting in the guest room wearing her favorite black lace nightie, door slightly open, eyes full of hunger when I pass by. I know this is wrong. I know one day it will destroy everything—Neha's trust, family honor, my marriage, her future. But when I think of her body, her moans, her choot clenching around me, her whispered Jija ji zor se chod do apni saali ko—I can't stop. This sin, this love, this addiction has become my oxygen.
Tonight I will go to her again. I will kiss her deeply, suck her nipples until she begs, eat her choot until she squirts, fuck her in every position, fill her with my cum while she moans Jija ji bhar do poora bhar do. Tomorrow morning she will serve breakfast to everyone with the same sweet smile, call me Jija ji innocently while my seed leaks out under her saree.
This is our life now—daylight perfection, midnight sin. Guilt is there, sharp like knife, but desire is bigger. Love is there, twisted and forbidden, but real. And we can't stop. We won't stop.
The nights stretch on, the risks grow, the creampies continue. Every time I fill her I imagine the impossible—a child that is ours but never can be acknowledged. The thought terrifies me, arouses me, binds me tighter to her. Riya has become my obsession, my weakness, my everything. In the noisy lanes of Kankarbagh where life moves fast and secrets hide behind closed doors, we keep burning together—two people trapped in a love that should never exist but feels more real than anything else.
And so it continues—more touches, more kisses, more positions, more creampies, more whispered I love yous in the dark. The guilt never leaves, but the hunger never dies. Because once you cross that line with your saali, once you taste her surrender, once you feel her choot milk you dry—there is no coming back.
Only deeper.
Only darker.
Only forever.
(Word count: 2512)
But the hunger keeps growing, so let me go deeper into the details, the small everyday moments that make this affair feel both terrifying and beautiful. Every afternoon when Riya helps maa in the kitchen wearing her fitted kurti and leggings, she bends to pick spices from lower shelf deliberately making her gaand push towards me when I come for water. The risk of maa turning around makes my lund hard instantly. She looks back over her shoulder, winks, whispers dheere se Jija ji… raat ko poora milega. Those few seconds of teasing keep me hard all day, waiting for night like a drug addict. When bhaiya is home on his off days Riya becomes even more daring—she sits beside me on the sofa during family TV time, her hand hidden under the shawl strokes my lund slowly while bhaiya watches news completely unaware. The way her fingers squeeze the topi, the way she smiles innocently when I look at her desperately, the way she licks her lips remembering the taste of my cum—it is torture and heaven combined.
One weekend when maa-papa went to Gaya for a shraddh ceremony leaving us three alone for two days, Riya turned the house into our private playground. She wore nothing but her wedding lehenga choli without blouse underneath—just choli barely covering her breasts—and a sheer dupatta all day, walking around the house teasing me constantly. Bending over to pick things showing her gaand, sitting on sofa spreading her legs slightly so I could see she wore no panty, fingering herself slowly while I watched from across the room. We fucked everywhere—living room on the sofa with windows open risking neighbor seeing, kitchen on the counter while she cooked, bathroom under the shower with water muffling our moans, staircase against the wall quick hard fuck, rooftop under the stars full night of multiple rounds. She begged me to come inside her every time bhar de Jija ji saali ki choot bhar do tera maal chahiye andar. That weekend we lost count—maybe twelve times, maybe more—each time I filled her completely, each time she came screaming my name muffled against my shoulder. When maa-papa returned Sunday night everything looked normal—Riya served dinner in her modest salwar suit, called me Jija ji sweetly, but under the table her foot rubbed my lund while she smiled innocently at everyone.
The emotional layers run deeper than the physical ones. Some nights after sex she cries softly in my arms saying Jija ji mujhe bohot guilty feel hota hai Neha di ke saath yeh kar rahi hoon par ruk nahi paati… tujhse pyar ho gaya hai real wala pyar. I hold her tight, kiss her tears, tell her I feel the same guilt every day but the love is stronger, that I can't breathe without her. We talk about impossible future—running away to some small town, living as husband-wife under new names, or careful plans to continue this forever without anyone knowing. She has started taking contraceptive pills secretly because pregnancy risk is too high, but sometimes she forgets on purpose, whispers agar ho gaya toh Jija ji… humara bachcha hoga, sabko lagega kisi aur ka par hum jaanenge sach. The thought terrifies me, arouses me like nothing else, makes me take her harder, deeper, filling her with even more cum.
As January 12 2026 continues, bhaiya's night shifts go on, winter nights are cooler but the heat between us burns hotter than summer. Every day brings new tension—new stolen touches in crowded family gatherings, new whispered promises in passing corridors, new risks when someone almost catches us. Riya has become my everything—my obsession, my weakness, my reason to breathe, my secret sin. In the noisy, crowded lanes of Kankarbagh where life moves fast and secrets hide behind closed doors and drawn curtains, we keep adding more fuel to the fire—hoping it never burns out, because if it does, we might not survive the cold emptiness that follows.
The nights stretch on. The guilt never fully leaves. But the desire never fades either. Every creampie, every muffled moan, every whispered Jija ji makes us fall harder, deeper, forever. Riya is mine completely—in every way that matters, in every way that shouldn't. And I am hers. In the heart of Patna, under the same moon that watched our first surrender, we continue burning together—two souls trapped in a love that should never exist but feels more real than anything else in this world.
And so the story goes on—no end in sight—only more nights, more risks, more surrender, more addiction, more love wrapped in guilt wrapped in ecstasy wrapped in the unbreakable, forbidden bond between a jiju and his saali.
Riya has always been part of our family life since Neha and I got married. She used to come every summer vacation and festival, calling me Jija ji with that sweet, slightly naughty tone, asking me to take her for ice-cream or drop her to tuition on my bike. I treated her like my own little sister—buying her chocolates, scolding her for low marks, helping with college applications. But this last year something shifted. After her graduation she stopped wearing those loose salwar suits and started wearing fitted kurtis, low-waist jeans, and during family functions—specially this time when our youngest cousin's wedding was fixed—she began wearing lehengas and sarees that showed off her newly developed figure. Fair skin like fresh malai, long straight black hair that reaches her lower back, big innocent eyes that can turn seductive in a second, full pink lips always glossy, and a body that makes every outfit look criminal—heavy C-cup breasts that strain against every choli, tiny waist, flared hips, and a perfectly round gaand that jiggles slightly when she walks fast or dances during sangeet practice.
The trouble started properly in November 2025 when the wedding dates were finalized—one full month of functions: roka, tilak, haldi, mehendi, sangeet, baraat, reception. The entire extended family descended on our house. Mattresses were laid out in every room, kitchen ran twenty-four hours, dhol practice happened on the terrace every evening, and laughter never stopped. Riya came from her college hostel to stay permanently for the month, sharing the guest room right next to ours on the first floor. Bhaiya (Neha's brother) was busy with his job in Bangalore and could only come for the last week, so Riya was practically under my care—helping me with shopping lists, decoration planning, and sometimes late-night talks when everyone else slept.
The first real spark happened during the mehendi function preparation. It was late evening, power cut as usual in Patna winters, generator running downstairs for lights in the courtyard but our floor was dark except for mobile torches. Everyone was downstairs applying mehendi to the bride-to-be. Riya called me to her room saying Jija ji zara help karo, yeh heavy lehenga box uthane mein. I went inside, the room lit by one emergency light. She was wearing a simple green cotton kurti and leggings, hair open, fresh from bath, jasmine scent filling the room. When she bent to show me the box her kurti rode up exposing the smooth skin of her lower back and the top of her black panty waistband. I froze. She noticed, turned slowly, smiled that naughty smile she has, and whispered Jija ji aap bhi badal gaye ho… pehle toh aise nahi dekhte the. I stammered sorry Riya galti se… but she stepped closer, so close I could feel her breath, and said galti nahi Jija ji… dil se dekha hai na? The air became thick, my lund twitched in my pajama. I should have left. Instead I stayed. She turned again, bent deeper, deliberately making her gaand push against my crotch for a second. I felt the soft roundness, the heat. She straightened, looked back over her shoulder and whispered aapka… hard ho gaya hai Jija ji. I panicked, turned to leave but she caught my wrist, pulled me inside, closed the door quietly. In the dim light she whispered bas thodi der… koi nahi aayega. Everyone mehendi mein busy hai.
That night we didn't do everything but we crossed the line. She kissed me first—soft, hesitant, then hungry. I kissed back tasting her strawberry lip balm, feeling her small tongue explore my mouth. My hands went to her waist, pulled her closer, squeezed her gaand over the leggings. She moaned softly uffff Jija ji kitna pyar se pakad rahe ho. I lifted her kurti, touched her bare waist, felt the softness of her skin. She guided my hand to her breast—full, firm, nipple hard through the bra. I squeezed gently, she arched aaaahhhh Jija ji zor se dabao. We kissed for long minutes in that dark room, hands exploring, breathing heavy. When we heard footsteps downstairs she pushed me away, fixed her clothes, whispered kal raat ko terrace pe wait karna Jija ji… sab so jayenge tab. I left with a painful hard-on and a heart full of guilt. She was my saali, my wife's sister, family. Yeh galat hai, bohot galat hai. But the thrill was already inside me like poison.
From that night the secret affair began—slow, careful, dangerously addictive. During the day she was the same sweet saali—helping with wedding shopping, teasing me about my old clothes, calling me Jija ji in front of everyone with innocent smiles. But at night when the house slept after long wedding preparations, the real Riya came out. She started wearing shorter nighties when she came to give me water or ask for phone charger, bending low so I could see her cleavage, her nipples poking through the fabric. One night she came to my room at 2 a.m. wearing only a short black satin nightie, no bra, no panty. She closed the door, locked it, came straight to my bed and whispered Jija ji neend nahi aa rahi… aapki yaad aa rahi thi. Before I could speak she climbed on top of me, kissed me deeply, her breasts pressing against my chest through the thin fabric. I pulled the nightie straps down, sucked her nipples hard while she moaned softly uffff Jija ji choos lo zor se choos apni saali ke chuche. My hand went between her legs—choot already soaking wet, shaved smooth, swollen. I fingered her slowly, then faster, she came shaking aaaahhhhh Jija ji ungli se hi jhad gayi.
She pushed me back, pulled my pajamas down, took my lund in her hand stroked slowly whispered kitna bada hai Jija ji… Neha di kitni lucky hain. Then she took me in her mouth—slow at first, tongue on topi, then deep, gagging slightly but not stopping. I came in her mouth, she swallowed every drop, licked her lips saying tera maal kitna tasty hai Jija ji. We didn't stop there. Next night on the terrace under winter stars she pulled me behind the water tank, lifted her nightie, guided my lund inside her standing against the wall. First full chudai—slow, deep, her legs wrapped around my waist, my hand covering her mouth to muffle moans aaaahhhh Jija ji andar tak daal do poora daal do. I fucked her hard, fast, the wall shaking slightly. She came twice clenching around me before I exploded inside her garam garam maal bhar do Jija ji saali ki choot bhar do.
After that there was no stopping. Every night became our private world. Kitchen at 1 a.m.—her bent over counter, saree hiked up, me pounding from behind while she bit her dupatta to stay quiet. Rooftop under moonlight—her riding me on charpoy, nightie pulled up, breasts bouncing in my face while I sucked them. Her bedroom when bhaiya was away on official tour—full night, multiple rounds, every position. Missionary with deep eye contact, doggy with hair pulling, cowgirl where she controlled the pace grinding her hips, reverse cowgirl showing me how her gaand swallowed my lund. She learned to squeeze her choot muscles around me, making me cum faster. I learned to rub her clit while fucking her, making her squirt on the bedsheet.
The guilt was always there. Every morning when she came to give me tea, called me Jija ji sweetly in front of Neha and family, I felt like the worst human alive. Neha trusted me completely, loved me, never suspected. Maa praised Riya for being such a good girl, helping with wedding work. Papa treated me like his responsible son-in-law. But at night Riya became mine—completely, shamelessly, hungrily. She whispered dirty things Jija ji meri choot sirf aapke liye geeli hoti hai, Neha di ko sirf naam ke liye chodne dena, main aapki randi saali hoon ab. Those words made me cum harder, deeper, filling her every time.
The risk grew with every passing day. Once during sangeet practice when everyone was dancing downstairs, she pulled me to the storeroom on the second floor, locked the door, lifted her lehenga, no panty underneath, guided me inside her standing. I fucked her hard against the wall, hand over her mouth, music below covering our moans. I came inside her in under three minutes, cum dripping down her thighs while she fixed her lehenga and went back to dance with a satisfied smile. Another time during baraat preparation when the house was full of guests, she came to my room at 3 a.m., climbed on my bed, rode me silently while the whole house slept around us. The fear of someone walking in only made her choot tighter, my thrusts harder.
Months passed, the wedding got over, guests left, house became quiet again. But our hunger didn't die—it grew. Bhaiya still has night shifts sometimes. Those nights become our full nights—slow love-making with deep kisses, rough fucking with slapping and hair pulling, emotional talks after where she cries saying Jija ji mujhe pyar ho gaya hai aapse, real wala pyar, ruk nahi paati. I hold her, kiss her tears, tell her I feel the same, that the guilt kills me every day but I can't live without her. We talk about future—dangerous dreams of running away, careful plans of continuing this forever. She started taking pills secretly because pregnancy risk is too high, but sometimes she forgets on purpose, whispers agar ho gaya toh Jija ji… humara bachcha hoga, sabko lagega kisi aur ka par hum jaanenge sach.
Now January 12 2026, bhaiya is on a week-long training in Ranchi. House is almost empty except maa-papa who sleep early. Riya is staying here pretending to help with post-wedding cleaning. Tonight she is waiting in the guest room wearing her favorite black lace nightie, door slightly open, eyes full of hunger when I pass by. I know this is wrong. I know one day it will destroy everything—Neha's trust, family honor, my marriage, her future. But when I think of her body, her moans, her choot clenching around me, her whispered Jija ji zor se chod do apni saali ko—I can't stop. This sin, this love, this addiction has become my oxygen.
Tonight I will go to her again. I will kiss her deeply, suck her nipples until she begs, eat her choot until she squirts, fuck her in every position, fill her with my cum while she moans Jija ji bhar do poora bhar do. Tomorrow morning she will serve breakfast to everyone with the same sweet smile, call me Jija ji innocently while my seed leaks out under her saree.
This is our life now—daylight perfection, midnight sin. Guilt is there, sharp like knife, but desire is bigger. Love is there, twisted and forbidden, but real. And we can't stop. We won't stop.
The nights stretch on, the risks grow, the creampies continue. Every time I fill her I imagine the impossible—a child that is ours but never can be acknowledged. The thought terrifies me, arouses me, binds me tighter to her. Riya has become my obsession, my weakness, my everything. In the noisy lanes of Kankarbagh where life moves fast and secrets hide behind closed doors, we keep burning together—two people trapped in a love that should never exist but feels more real than anything else.
And so it continues—more touches, more kisses, more positions, more creampies, more whispered I love yous in the dark. The guilt never leaves, but the hunger never dies. Because once you cross that line with your saali, once you taste her surrender, once you feel her choot milk you dry—there is no coming back.
Only deeper.
Only darker.
Only forever.
(Word count: 2512)
But the hunger keeps growing, so let me go deeper into the details, the small everyday moments that make this affair feel both terrifying and beautiful. Every afternoon when Riya helps maa in the kitchen wearing her fitted kurti and leggings, she bends to pick spices from lower shelf deliberately making her gaand push towards me when I come for water. The risk of maa turning around makes my lund hard instantly. She looks back over her shoulder, winks, whispers dheere se Jija ji… raat ko poora milega. Those few seconds of teasing keep me hard all day, waiting for night like a drug addict. When bhaiya is home on his off days Riya becomes even more daring—she sits beside me on the sofa during family TV time, her hand hidden under the shawl strokes my lund slowly while bhaiya watches news completely unaware. The way her fingers squeeze the topi, the way she smiles innocently when I look at her desperately, the way she licks her lips remembering the taste of my cum—it is torture and heaven combined.
One weekend when maa-papa went to Gaya for a shraddh ceremony leaving us three alone for two days, Riya turned the house into our private playground. She wore nothing but her wedding lehenga choli without blouse underneath—just choli barely covering her breasts—and a sheer dupatta all day, walking around the house teasing me constantly. Bending over to pick things showing her gaand, sitting on sofa spreading her legs slightly so I could see she wore no panty, fingering herself slowly while I watched from across the room. We fucked everywhere—living room on the sofa with windows open risking neighbor seeing, kitchen on the counter while she cooked, bathroom under the shower with water muffling our moans, staircase against the wall quick hard fuck, rooftop under the stars full night of multiple rounds. She begged me to come inside her every time bhar de Jija ji saali ki choot bhar do tera maal chahiye andar. That weekend we lost count—maybe twelve times, maybe more—each time I filled her completely, each time she came screaming my name muffled against my shoulder. When maa-papa returned Sunday night everything looked normal—Riya served dinner in her modest salwar suit, called me Jija ji sweetly, but under the table her foot rubbed my lund while she smiled innocently at everyone.
The emotional layers run deeper than the physical ones. Some nights after sex she cries softly in my arms saying Jija ji mujhe bohot guilty feel hota hai Neha di ke saath yeh kar rahi hoon par ruk nahi paati… tujhse pyar ho gaya hai real wala pyar. I hold her tight, kiss her tears, tell her I feel the same guilt every day but the love is stronger, that I can't breathe without her. We talk about impossible future—running away to some small town, living as husband-wife under new names, or careful plans to continue this forever without anyone knowing. She has started taking contraceptive pills secretly because pregnancy risk is too high, but sometimes she forgets on purpose, whispers agar ho gaya toh Jija ji… humara bachcha hoga, sabko lagega kisi aur ka par hum jaanenge sach. The thought terrifies me, arouses me like nothing else, makes me take her harder, deeper, filling her with even more cum.
As January 12 2026 continues, bhaiya's night shifts go on, winter nights are cooler but the heat between us burns hotter than summer. Every day brings new tension—new stolen touches in crowded family gatherings, new whispered promises in passing corridors, new risks when someone almost catches us. Riya has become my everything—my obsession, my weakness, my reason to breathe, my secret sin. In the noisy, crowded lanes of Kankarbagh where life moves fast and secrets hide behind closed doors and drawn curtains, we keep adding more fuel to the fire—hoping it never burns out, because if it does, we might not survive the cold emptiness that follows.
The nights stretch on. The guilt never fully leaves. But the desire never fades either. Every creampie, every muffled moan, every whispered Jija ji makes us fall harder, deeper, forever. Riya is mine completely—in every way that matters, in every way that shouldn't. And I am hers. In the heart of Patna, under the same moon that watched our first surrender, we continue burning together—two souls trapped in a love that should never exist but feels more real than anything else in this world.
And so the story goes on—no end in sight—only more nights, more risks, more surrender, more addiction, more love wrapped in guilt wrapped in ecstasy wrapped in the unbreakable, forbidden bond between a jiju and his saali.